


pancakes are my only hope

by frogbackpack



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Likes Dogs, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), I like using second person pov idk why I don’t do it more, No Dialogue, POV Second Person, Simon Dies at Stratford Tower (Detroit: Become Human), connor deals with the aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 13:12:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19442149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frogbackpack/pseuds/frogbackpack
Summary: Simon dies. Connor feels and wishes he doesn’t. Pancakes happen at one point.





	pancakes are my only hope

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to make this more found family-ish than I did because I’m dummy. Also, this is kinda incoherent bullshit, but I also kinda don’t care. I’m running on like, three hours of sleep and an energy drink. That’s my excuse. Hope you enjoy anyway.

You don’t feel anything. It’s faulty programming, that’s all.

But you feel the gears turning with whatever this emotion is that you’re not even supposed to experience. Your LED is going red, red, redder, until you’re sure it’s about to fall off.

Hank asks if you’re alright and you don’t want to answer. Hank doesn’t like androids and Hank doesn’t like you. Hank might sense your fear and CyberLife will have to disassemble you and throw away the parts that failed.

You tell him you felt it die. You don’t want to. Feel or tell him, you don’t know. All you know is somethings wrong. Somethings going haywire and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

Play the role of machine and wait for the guilt and regret to eat you from inside out. Or deviate and await Amanda’s disappointment. Await your inevitable deactivation and wish you’d chose the right thing.

But the right thing is fuzzy, blurry among the edges. The right thing isn’t anything you’ve ever known. You’re not sure you’d rather go without the knowledge or let it consume you.

Hank asks again in the car. 

You know it’s too late. He knows. He knows and he’s going to ruin you, let the prodding hands rip apart everything that you are.

You say you’re fine.

Android or not, you’re not fine and it’s practically chipping away at the soul you don’t have. The life that isn’t alive. It isn’t and it shouldn’t be.

The android, the PL600, stays. It leaves but not to you. You still see it when you blink the eyes that don’t need blinking. You hear the gunshot and feel the wound, sticky blue blood flowing and not stopping. Never stopping.

You want it to stop.

Hank lets you pet his dog when he drives back to his house. Sumo. His names Sumo. You like Sumo. You like that Hank doesn’t make you leave. You really like that Hank lets you pet his dog. 

Hank says goodnight and you watch as Sumo follows as he retreats to his bedroom.

Now you’re sitting on the floor in the living room of the man you’re pretty positive hates your artificial guts. You don’t hate his real guts. You don’t entirely understand why he doesn’t return the sentiment.

The night is spent contemplating what being alive is and why you aren’t. The morning is spent watching Hank watching you still sitting on the floor watching him. 

You’re pretty sure Hank’s pretty sure you’re crazy. Android crazy. Like the deviants before and like the deviants now. Maybe you are. The thought makes you sick. Feeling sick makes you sicker.

Hank almost offers you a pancake. They’re burnt and fluffy and somehow they’re both. He remembers you can’t eat.

You sit at the table, not really missing the floor but missing being with Sumo on the floor. Sumo wags his tail at your feet and you find that you don’t mind how much he’s drooling on your shoes.

Hank gets called in for a case and your only thought during the whole thing is you really wish you could eat pancakes.

**Author's Note:**

> It’s been so long since I’ve written for dbh. I missed me boyes.


End file.
